Hourglass
by starstruckcoffeecup
Summary: Rachel Berry is seventeen when she is diagnosed with cancer.
1. Bracelets

**A/N: This is **_**not **_**a happy story. Warnings for mature themes. And apologies to the Klainers who have me on Author Alert for writing a Faberry fic. I've got some Klaine up my sleeve too, don't worry. **

_Three hundred and eighty one_

Rachel Berry is seventeen when she is diagnosed with cancer.

She's got so many dreams and suddenly her life feels like a broken hourglass.

She knows all the real stars die young, but it feels like she hasn't got a chance to even begin.

She most of all fears being forgotten.

She listens as they chant numbers at her in her hospital bed. The doctor tells her that her outlook isn't too bad. She tries to believe him, but she's always been a drama queen.

People visit, one by one or sometimes in groups. They're all very sympathetic; all very nice. Some shuffle awkwardly, not really knowing what to say. Some come in and try to cheer her up. They bring her food and flowers and words of encouragement. Rachel wishes they would leave her alone.

Quinn Fabray doesn't really know why she stops by at the hospital. She almost doesn't enter the room, but she sucks it up, holding the basket of gifts she brought as a peacemaker as she slides through the door.

"Hi, Rachel," she says, sounding as bright as possible. "I brought you some stuff to make you feel a bit better. I know it's not much, but... well..."

Rachel props herself up in the bed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear self-conciously. "Oh. Um. Thank you, Quinn."

Quinn carefully passes her the basket, levering it as if it were made of glass onto Rachel's lap. Rachel feels a bit pissed off. Yes, she has cancer, but as of right now, she's as capable as ever. She makes no comment, however, and simply nods, half-smiling as she stares at the basket.

"Do you want me to open them no-"

"If you like," cuts in Quinn, embarassed, looking down.

Rachel nods and picks out the first parcel, absent mindedly putting her fingers in the right place to open the small parcel as she glances up at Quinn and asks; "How're things at school? In Glee?"

Quinn shrugs. "Normal, excluding the elephant in the room."

Rachel looks questioning as she pulls off the last layer of the present. It's a bracelet. It's not really her style, and Rachel finds herself thinking how much better it would look on Quinn. She smiles anyway. "Thank you. It's beautiful. You didn't have to bring me that, though."

Quinn shrugs uncharacteristically, averting her gaze from Rachel. It was too personal a present for the situation, too personal for whatever their relationship was.

Rachel reaches for another parcel. "So, um, what did you mean by the elephant in the room?"

"You being sick. Nobody really wants to talk about it."

"Oh. Well, I'm discharged tommorow, and I'll be back soon after. You guys don't really have to worry about it." She pulls off the wrapping paper to reveal a packet of sweets, nodding a thanks to Quinn as she places them by the side of her bed. They're her favourite, but she doesn't feel like eating.

"You're still sick, though. You still need treatment," says Quinn. "I mean- what stage of cancer is i-"

"One. Just one," Rachel cuts in. She's not hopeless yet. "It's not even that serious. I'll probably be fine after some chemo."

"Your beautiful hair's going to fall out, though," Quinn says, biting her lip as she looks at Rachel. Then she swiftly glances away.

"I- um, yeah." Rachel hadn't really thought about that. She hadn't wanted to.

She finds herself reaching for the last parcel and unwrapping it slowly. The rest of the basket is filled with fruit. She kind of wants to keep Quinn here. Despite their differences, and the threat of argument lingering above them, Rachel doesn't mind the company. She's not treading on pins like the others, scared of saying something to upset her. She asks the questions that need to be asked.

The silence is sweeping but for the crackle of paper as Rachel unwraps the box of chocolates.

She's not sure she's in the mood for chocolate, but it was a nice thought.

"Thanks," she says to Quinn.

"You're, uh, welcome."

"Well."

"I better go. You must be tired."

"I suppose," said Rachel, nodding after her.

Rachel curls back on the bed as Quinn leaves, twisting the bracelet between her hands. She's too tired to do anything else but imagine her own broadway fantasy unrolling as she sings quietly to herself.

In her head there are stars. In her head, she _is_ the star, and she shines so bright. She won't let this cancer put her light out.


	2. Notebooks

**A/N: Glad you guys have been enjoying it, and thanks for all the reviews, favourites, alerts etc. And on with the story!**

_Three hundred and seventy seven_

Rachel goes back into school two days after being discharged. Chemo starts in two weeks and she's sick of sitting at home alone pouring over textbooks. She wants to be around people who love her. And everyone loves the underdog. Rachel puts on a brave, determinedly smiling face. A face which nobody would know is sick; not because she feels the need for a positive outlook, but because she wants everyone to remember her smile despite hard circumstance. She wants to be remembered as a heroine and inspiration.

"Hi, Rachel, how are you doing?" Quinn leans against the lockers while Rachel sifts through her collection of books in hers.

Although Rachel's outlook is good, she's living in a world where she believes she is going to die.

"Great, thanks," Rachel's voice was bright, she grinned at Quinn with pearl-white teeth.

Quinn looked disconcerted by her bright outlook. "Right. Okay then. Um. Are you coming to Glee?" Her voice is a little too high pitched.

"Yeah, of course," said Rachel, nonchalantly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I'm... well, I thought you might go home early if you didn't feel so good."

"Why would I do that?"

"It might be a good idea," suggested Quinn. "I mean, you don't want to over-exert yourself too far." She reaches out and touches Rachel on the shoulder in a gesture of comfort.

Rachel snaps. She isn't sure why, but something about Quinn breaks her facade and she throws ther books back in her locker and turns to face her, almost yelling; "Honestly, Quinn, what is this about? Is it about _Finn_ again? Popularity? Because all I know is that you've never cared about me and the moment I'm-" she slams the locker shut, not caring that the whole hallway is staring at her. "-sick, you act like we're best friends. And I'm sick of your double standards, Quinn Fabray. I'm sick of you being my friend when it's _convenient for you _and then turning your knives on me when I'm in the way of _something you want_!" Rachel has to stop to take a breather. It's her years of practice for speeches and acting that she was able to reel all that out without a stutter, but it takes her a moment to piece out her next few words. She's more quiet now, reserved, while Quinn looks stunned. "And for the record," her voice now is almost more frightening to Quinn than when she was screaming in her face; "I'm not after Finn."

"I-I know that. It's not about that."

"Then what?" says Rachel, exasperated., throwing her hands up in the air."Do you need to be nice to me now to remind everyone how _kind_ Miss Quinn Fabray is? Because it's not going to work, Quinn! Your platitudes to me won't earn you anything!" She stands there for a moment, unsure, and then turns and flounces away. She doesn't notice that she's left her notebook on the floor.

Quinn stands there in shock for a moment too long. The world begins to move around her again, the drama continues in hushed whispers, furtive and hungry for gossip. _Like crows_, Quinn finds herself thinking. _Each and every one of them hungry for scraps_. She dives to the floor like a bottom-feeder in some eco-system too grand to pick up Rachel's notebook, scrambling it up and shoving it under her coat. She's ashamed that she's been reduced to a scavenger when she's always at the top. Soon enough, she might be shark-bait.

Quinn doesn't mean to read it. She really doesn't. She means to slip it straight back to Rachel in Glee Club as a gesture of peace to remedy the situation, but Rachel never shows. And Quinn is left with the weight of the notebook in her bag and when she gets home, she finds that she's pulling it out the bag.

Her hands are furtive as she opens the pages. They're crisp and new, everything neat. She shakes as she looks at the words.

Rachel's handwriting is slender and beautiful. Quinn finds herself tracing it with her little finger, feeling the imprint of it on the page.

The notebook isn't so much a diary as a book of thoughts. There's no contrived, this-is-what-I-did-today feel to it. It's thoughts and feelings and words and drawings and Rachel, summed up into the folds of these pages. Although there's nothing particularly private in there thus far, Quinn feels far too much like an intruder. These words aren't hers to own. She closes the book, feeling ashamed of herself, but one fragment catches her eye as she does.

_Do you ever imagine your own funeral? It seems vain, but sometimes I do. Everybody wants to be remembered for being someone great._

Quinn knows the feeling all to well. She doesn't move for a long time, absorbed in the thought that she wasn't alone in this hunger to be special.

Back at her home, Rachel Berry fishes through her bag for a full fifteen minutes before realising she must have lost the notebook. She curses herself, trying to find a way to backtrack through her mind, but she can't remember any opportunity she had to lose it. She went home after third period to avoid Glee.

Oh. Her mind retraces the fight in the hallway. She could have easily left it there. She tries to convince herself it's still in her locker, but she remembers taking it out and holding it in her hand.

_Please let it be still in the hallway or in a bin somewhere_, she thinks. _Please let Quinn not even know it exists. _

She prays it until she falls asleep, staring at the stars through her open window with the cool air on her face.


	3. Scissors

**A/N: Sorry there was no update yesterday, I had NO time. Also, am I writing fic when I should be studying? Yes. Yes I am. I have no regrets. Short, one-shot-ish chapter, which is kidn of how this fic will be organized. It's just the nature of the story, sorry.**

_Three hundred and seventy four_

On the day she's going to have her hair cut, Rachel sits and brushes it for hours. She ties it up in various combinations, primps it with every product she owns. It's such a small thing, really, her hair. Just cells on her head, but it feels so important. It feels like she's losing her dignity. She runs the brush through it over and over again, twirling the strands around her fingers. Her back begins to ache from the effort of sitting on the stool facing her dresser for so long.

Rachel examines herself for a moment, taking in the way she looks, the brush poised in her hand and the perfect glance of innocence in her eyes.

She sighs, putting down the brush on her dressing table, feeling frustrated.

Her hands reach for the scissors. She holds them between her fingers like a toy, twirling them in interest. They glimmer in the light coming through her window and she runs her fingers across the blunt outer edge. Then, on impulse, Rachel snaps them open, hacking at the side of her hair. It falls to the floor in pieces; gradually, bit by bit dislodging itself from her hair. Rachel is dissapointed; she expected something more dramatic. The drop of her hair like a gossamer sheet to her floor, but instead it's this jagged mess that lies like knives in wait. It takes her some time to make sure it's all gone from her head, she has to pull at it to dislodge it all.

When she's done, she stares in the mirror at herself. She looks stupid; her hair's uneven. She cut it from the side, so all she has is a jagged line across what was a perfect sheet. She stares in her own eyes. She barely feels like herself anymore.

So she'd got what she intended.

An alien in her own skin, Rachel sticks her tounge out as she tries to neaten up her handiwork. It has no effect. Rachel is a girl of many talents, but hairdressing is not one of them. She gives up, eventually. She still goes to the hairdresser to get the rest cut off. It wasn't really about that, anyway. It was just the matter of doing it on her own terms.

Her dads understand, when they see her. They understand everything. Sometimes Rachel feels like she lives in a house full of therapists. They're _too_ understanding, they know all too _well _what she's going through, they put everything down to her stress and inner turmoil and the difficulties of facing the realities of cancer diagnosis.

Rachel feels like she's not a teenager anymore, but a child. The same kind of child who sat on a parent's lap was read stories to. The kind of child who is told what to do; who doesn't make their own decisions. Who people talk about as if she is not there, and that's the worst part. She's tired of people making remarks about her behaviour while she's standing in the room, and she can only imagine what it must be like when she's not there.

Her dads have always lived everything through books and films and musicals. Sometimes Rachel wonders if that left them able to deal with the real world. Because she's got no fanfare, no revelation. She's just a girl who's got her chances on the line.


	4. The Glass Girl

**A/N: I owe all my lovely readers an apology. I've been really caught up with exams, and on top of that, I just couldn't get this chapter right. I'm still not really happy with it, but I owe you an update. I promise this fic isn't abandoned. Thank you, readers!**

_Three hundred and seventy_

"Here's your notebook."

Rachel doesn't notice Quinn until she says the words, her head is too buried in her books as she copies down notes about- well, something or other, she's suddenly forgotten. She looks up, intaking her breath sharply as she takes in the presence of Quinn. Her voice seems loud in the quiet page-flicking and pen-tapping of the library, although in reality it's as soft as silk.

"Oh. Um. Thanks." Rachel takes it from her, setting it down on the desk beside her.

"You left it in th-"

"Yeah."

"Well. Um, bye." Quinn turns slightly with the inclination to leave.

"Did you..." Rachel trails off, looking expectantly at Quinn. She doesn't really want to flat out accuse Quinn of reading it, but she needs to know.

Quinn's silence speaks volumes; her goldfish mouth and embarassed, downcast expression is the sequel accented with a rosy blush. "I..."

Rachel was suddenly angry. In frustration, she began packing her bag, shoving everything in there haphazardly in her lightning rage. "I can't believe you woul-"

"It's not like I-"

"Forget it," she says. Both their voices are far too raised for the library, earning them an ignored tutt from the librarian. Rachel slings her backpack over her shoulder and heads out the door. She's angry at herself for being angry. It's a vicious cycle. _What was she expecting_, she wonders. _Did she really think Quinn had any respect for her at all?_

Quinn stands, dumbfounded for a minute, but she eventually runs after Rachel, catching the flicker of her figure pushing open the girl's bathroom door as she does so. Quinn hesitantly stands at the door for a moment, feeling as if she should knock. She opens it to find Rachel, staring in the mirror. Her head is bare, entirely bald. The wig lies on the floor and Rachel's staring at herself in the mirror with a disgusted look on her face. Quinn stands in the doorway.

Rachel's crying.

"Rachel?" she says softly, closing the door behind her.

"What do you want?" she chokes out.

"Nothing."

Rachel catches her glance in the mirror.

Quinn walks over slowly and leans herself against the sink next to Rachel, who doesn't stop crying, still choking out sobs. Her mascara streaks down her face, her eyeliner's vanishing. She looks fragile, like a girl made of glass. This is the first time she's cried. She's felt sad. She's almost given up. But not yet cried because of this.

The glass girl begins to calm down, wiping the streaks from her face. "Could you stop looking at me like that, please?"

"Like what?"

"Like you- like, I don't know." Rachel stares at the grotty sink in front of her, eyeing the cracks in the marble to avoid Quinn's gaze.

The other girl bends down and picks the wig off the floor, gently shaking it free of the dust. As she did so, she spoke. "I'm sorry. I didn't read it all- I know I shouldn't have, but..."

Rachel grips the sink harder in frustration, sighing and looking up at the ceiling. "No. You shouldn't have. But you know, it's not even about that."

Quinn doesn't say anything. She doesn't need to ask, because the words are already coming.

"I- I'm just so angry and sad all of the time. It's like I'm living in a drama movie. And just look at me. I'm some pale shred of who I was, bald and stupid and the wig doesn't look right and I just feel-"

Quinn puts a hand on Rachel's shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. Rachel turns to look at her. The light glimmers through the ajar window across both their faces.

"You're still beautiful," whispers Quinn.

"You think so?"

"Yes."

Rachel brushes a flicker of hair out of Quinn's eye.

Quinn breaks away from her, her hand floating down to her side. "I- I uh, have to go." She leaves the wig on the side of the sink as she almost runs out of the bathroom, her shoes clicking on the tiled floor.

Rachel waits for a moment. She gives herself a long, hard look in the mirror, and puts the wig back on. It feels more like a mask than anything else.


End file.
